


Wine, Watson and Song

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drunkenness, Gen, Humor, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dusty bottle of Montrachet started it all.  Holmes lets his hair down;  Watson assesses the damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wine, Watson and Song

“Watson,” said my dear friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes, one mild autumnal evening as we sat on opposite sides of an unlit fire, both smoking our pipes while thinking deeply of nothing. “Watson.”

“Yes, Holmes?”

My friend stretched out his legs, yawning, fixing me with one of his grey and beady eyes.

“What do you say that we crack open that dusty bottle of Montrachet that has been sitting upon our sideboard for so long, eh?”

I glanced over my shoulder at the bottle, which had indeed been in situ for a number of weeks without its having been breached by the either of us. Surprising enough, indeed, considering our partiality to both chateau and the vintage.

“If you like,” I agreed. “That is, if you do not think it too much on top of the brandy that we have already imbi--”

“Pif pof,” said Holmes. He had already sprung to the sideboard and was chipping away at the wax with a silver corkscrew. “I am in the _mood_ for it, Watson.”

“Apparently you are,” I said, amused. I watched him as he deftly plucked the cork from the narrow neck, bringing the bottle with him to the gasogene where he lifted two wine glasses to fill to two-thirds.

“Here,” said he, offering one of them to me. “Get that down your gizzard.”

“Apples and peaches,” I suggested, sniffing the contents of the glass.

“Oh, don't start all that,” said Holmes. “I cannot be bothered this evening.” He took a large gulp. “Yummy.”

“Well, ' _yummy_ ' is as good a descriptive as any, I suppose,” I said. For the dry white Burgundy was indeed very good. We sat and sipped for a while in a contemplative silence. The month of October was hurtling headway into November, and before too many evenings were through we should be calling for Mrs. Hudson to lay the paper and the coals for winter warmth.

“Cards!” said Holmes, rather apropos of nothing. His cheeks were shining pink from mysterious good cheer and fine wine. “I promise I won't cheat, Watson.”

“I do not wish to play _Snap_ this time,” I complained. “Let us play something sensible, at least. Gin Rummy?”

I drew a small card table to us while my friend shuffled and commenced to deal the first hand. The oil lamp shone a warm and comforting spread across the baize. I was in hope that Holmes might not be of an inclination to play for money, as I had already spent far more than my weekly allowance in the back room of the Golden Lion – my beleaguered wallet coming off much the worse for it. 

Holmes had emptied his pockets the meanwhile. He spread out an array of old coin, boiled sweets and a shiny brown threaded conker.

“Come on, Watson,” said he, “what have you got to put in the pot?”

“You are wanting to gamble with sweets and conkers?” I asked, incredulous. 

He nodded.

“Although I am rather fond of my conker,” he said with a frown. “Perhaps I should not include it. It is a twenty-niner.”

“It is a what? Do you mean to tell me that you have been...?”

He shrugged.

I delved deep into my pockets and came up with a small comb, an embroidered cotton handkerchief and a toothpick.

“That's rubbish,” said Holmes. “I don't want any of that old tat.”

“Well, I shall not be letting you win in any case,” I replied with some asperity. “Are we quite ready to begin?”

“This reminds me of that awfully cold stakeout with Lestrade,” said Holmes. “But at least we had proper stakes then.” He refilled his wine glass. The bottle had now but a third remaining. He tapped at it with a fingernail; it rang back sadly in reply. “We need more drinkie,” he said, stretching out for the tray with the gasogene.

By the time that we had played four hands, the Montrachet was a distant memory and we were making merry with the whisky. We were not often inclined to over-indulge, therefore our tolerance for such an activity was damnably low. Holmes's cheeks were high-flushed; he sat back in his chair to examine his cards. He giggled.

“What is so funny?” I demanded, distracted.

“Do you have Mrs. Loaf, the Baker's Wife?” he enquired. I heard him snort behind his hand.

“I'll give you Mrs. Loaf,” I said, chuckling. I discarded my two of clubs and set down my hand. “Gin!”

Holmes stared at the baize.

“Oh, no no naw,” he said. “No, no, _nah_. Thassno _fair_ , Watson.”

“Holmes,” I said. “You are tipsy!”

He beamed at me.

“My kneecaps are tingling,” said he, leaning forward in confidence. “And I can't feel my thumbs.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “I think perhaps you ought to stop now?”

He shook his head. 

“I shall keep going until I lose sensation in my earlobes,” he informed me. He giggled again, swirling his tumbler of amber liquid. “Don't be a killjoy,” he added.

I took the cards and shuffled them. I picked the last of the boiled sweets from the pot and placed it into my waistcoat pocket. Holmes's eyes were on me, willing me away from the more precious bounty. He had raked his fingers distractedly through his hair, for black tendrils now stood on end as if proclaiming some morbid alarm. His collar was undone; his tie had vanished to who knew where. He looked every inch a dissolute Bacchus.

“Hand me my violin,” he said suddenly. “I have a terrible urge to play something.”

I passed it across to him cautiously. “Be careful,” I warned. “Do not drop it upon the hearth.”

He lifted it under his chin, experimentally plucked a string. He swept the bow across the bridge a number of times, fashioning a soft and wistful melody. Then he raised his nose up to the rooftops and began to sing in a quavering timbre.

The ditty, such as it was, appeared to be regarding a worm named Wiggly Woo that lived at the bottom of someone's garden. I started to laugh. He stoically ignored me. It was Wiggly Woo's custom to wiggle all night and wiggle all day. The tune was becoming enough, nonetheless, and Holmes's enthusiasm for it quite unquestionable. I cast a quick glance towards the standard lamp, fretfully wondering if I might have to wrestle my friend away from it at some imminent juncture.

“That was nice,” I said, when he had finished and had placed his instrument to repose. “Did you write it?”

He smirked. 

“I suppose it makes a change from Paganini,” I offered generously.

“My collarbones feel like cream cheese,” said he, ignoring my placatory blather. “They have never done that before.” He scribbled a note upon his shirt cuff.

“Holmes,” I said, as concerned for the possible eventual state of our hearthrug as much as anything else, “I do urge you to stop drinking and go to bed. You will have the most frightful head in the morning.”

“I need air,” he informed me, standing up suddenly and swaying most violently. “Oops.”

I took my friend's elbow and guided him across to the window, where he unlatched it and stuck his head out, inhaling a great lungful of night-scented air.

“If you're going to be sick, then I would beg you not to do so down the side of the building,” I said. 

He leaned out further, frowning.

I wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him a little further back into the room. “Having you fall out head-first to land on that pillar box would not be the grandest notion, either. Holmes, for heaven's sake, stop squirming, I am trying to _help_ you.”

I managed to manoeuvre him away from the window and into a breakfast chair.

“Watson,” said he, “how is it that I am so squiffy but you are still sensible? We had the same things to drink, after all.”

“Yes,” I replied, “but I sipped, while you glugged, Holmes.” I shook my head at him. “I am going to fetch you a glass of water. Stay there. Do not move. I am warning you.”

From the bathroom, I heard muffled thumps and curses coming from the sitting-room.

“I said, _do not move_ , Holmes...”

Water glass in hand, I hurried back to re-enter the room.

“Oh, Holmes...”

He looked up brightly from his sprawl upon the rug. He pointed happily in the direction of his head.

“Hee hee!” said Sherlock Holmes.

In one corner a standard lamp stood tall, but sad and bare without its crown.

“I bring the King of Bedlam his glass of water,” I said, chuckling now, kneeling down by his side; this lunatic genius. A King indeed.


End file.
